Alicia Parlette came to The Chronicle as a Hearst Fellow in 2004 and sat at a desk next to copy editor Bernadette Fay. The two became friends and the friendship continued after Alicia's illness forced her to take a medical leave of absence. It continued to Alicia's death on Thursday after a courageous battle with a rare form of cancer. Fay remembers her friend and her unflagging spirit.

On the night she was admitted to the ER, a doctor told Alicia Parlette what a brave lady she was. She let the comment go by, but the second time he said it, she told him: "Well, it's not like I have a choice."

And to her, there was no choice: You either live with pain and live with cancer, or you don't live.

She always chose the path that led onward - the clinical trial, kicking OxyContin. Even in the ICU, when she could manage it, she took notes on her treatment so that she was kept aware of her options. This was someone who, at 28, had been navigating her cancer treatment for five years.

Because I was Alicia's friend, for the past couple of years I have fielded the question: How's Alicia doing? I heard that inquiry often from family, friends, colleagues and complete strangers.

I had my standard replies: She's holding her own. She's got her ups and downs but she's doing OK.

That was the short answer, and mostly true.

The real answer, of course, was longer and more complicated. It involved tests of her will and her faith. It involved both hope and anxiety; fear and fearlessness; and a determination to live with her dog in a studio apartment in San Francisco while negotiating the increasing difficulty of everyday living. This everyday living included, over the years, biopsies and scans, interferon, chemotherapy, platelet infusions, experimental clinical trials, gamma knife radiation therapy and countless prescriptions. And then more prescriptions for the side effects (insomnia, fatigue, nausea, dry mouth, tingling hands, rashes, hot sweats, chills, lapses in memory, to name a few) caused by the original medications.

But everyday life also included, as it turns out, falling in love with the man who would become her fiance.

In the past few weeks, as Alicia went from ER to ICU to comfort care, she continued to be in charge of her medical care (she could talk medicine and dosages like a pharmacist) and show off her wicked wit and generosity (she seemed to relish her visitors, yet the visits took a toll on her energy).

So this is the hard part to convey: that she was determined and hopeful yet also very human and subject to the human emotions of fear and frustration.

A few years ago, as I was driving her home from a medical treatment, she was overcome by fatigue.

"Do you mind if we just drive around for a little bit?" she asked, leaning her head against the headrest.

We drove around San Francisco for a few minutes, and then I headed to my favorite spot, Crissy Field, and parked facing the bay.

The wind outside the car was fierce, buffeting people in jackets walking their dogs near the sand. The bay was rough, flecked in white, the sky was the color of steel. As we sat in my Honda, rocked by the wind, I watched Alicia sleep, her hair swept back from her face, totally at peace. If there are angels in the world, I couldn't help thinking, here's one who has fallen asleep in the front seat of my car.

We stayed there for at least 45 minutes as I watched her sleep and tried to prepare myself for the future. My mind wandered back to when I and her friend Brianna (who would be one of the group staying with her in palliative care 24/7) accompanied her to one of her first doctors' appointments in 2005. As I remember it, the doctor likened Alicia's type of cancer to a slow-moving train that gradually picks up speed, and I remembered thinking of it as something massive and unstoppable and bearing down.

A couple of months ago, Alicia and I talked about her writing and her boyfriend and a possible interview for The Chronicle. We had seen each other only infrequently in the previous year, and for the first time I had the sense that she was grappling with time. That she felt the sense of fleeting time.

A little over a month later, she called me to say she needed to go to the ER. I met Alicia's friend Shirley at Alicia's apartment and we called an ambulance.

Sitting with her in the ER in the early morning hours, with her blue angel tattoo on her shoulder, I thought of Crissy Field and the realization I had come to even back then as I watched her sleep. That no matter how you try, you can't prepare for loss. It just happens and leaves you bereft.

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To read "Alicia's Story" from The Chronicle, go to sfgate.com/Alicia.

Remembrances may be sent to msparlette.com or the Friends of Alicia Facebook page.

Contributions in her memory may be sent to the Alicia Parlette Fund for Aspiring Journalists, Reynolds School of Journalism, Mail Stop 310, University of Nevada, Reno, NV 89557. The Chronicle has a limited supply of "Alicia's Story," a paperback compilation of the first installments of the series. All proceeds after tax and shipping will go to the Alicia Parlette Fund for Aspiring Journalists. To order a copy, send a check for $15 to "Alicia's Story," San Francisco Chronicle, 901 Mission St., San Francisco, CA 94103.